


Birthday Gifts for the Squad

by JeanJavert



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Dead Man on Campus (1998), Free!, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Codependency, Coffee Shops, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossover, Dreams and Nightmares, Fraternities & Sororities, HOUSE STEREOTYPES, Multi, Mystery, Parallel Universes, Time Travel, hung like a horse, red string murder wall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2018-11-08 23:27:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11092116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanJavert/pseuds/JeanJavert
Summary: These are only several months late, no big.





	1. The Captive Asset

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedCave](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCave/gifts), [Gimlisonofgloin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gimlisonofgloin/gifts).



> This is one part gift for RedCave, one part my venting exasperation at the background sexytime shenanigans in the Captive Prince series.

**The Captive Asset**

 

_This_ , thought the asset, _is the weirdest mission I have ever been assigned. I can say that with absolutely certainty, despite having no memories before this morning._

The briefing had lived up to its name. His handler had mumbled something about ‘cultural differences’ and ‘utmost importance of an unfazed demeanor’ before the customary shove out the stealth plane behind enemy lines. At least he’d been given a parachute this time. On his way down, the asset vaguely recalled overhearing his handler and a Hydra scientist discussing time travel and parallel worlds. Before crashing into the azure ocean below, an old quote the asset must have heard in a previous life came to mind.

 

_I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore…_

 

* * *

 He had swum a ways to shore before being ‘saved’ by a small fishing boat. The two men who pulled him out of the water were dressed in what the asset had to assume was traditional garb, and spoke a dialect of Greek with which he was unfamiliar. Drop-offs some distance from the asset’s target were not usual; it was better to approach quietly from afar than arrive too close, too hot, and alert hostile opposition.

 

_Still_ , mused the asset as he faked delirium and exhaustion at the bottom of the boat, _landing near the Grecian outer islands when the mission is to disrupt the French seat of power seems a bit…too cautious._ Meanwhile, the following exchange occurred above the oblivious asset:

 

Fisherman 1: What’s with this guy?

 

Fishman 2: I dunno. Must be foreign. Did you see his arm?

 

Fisherman 1: Yeah. Crazy.

 

Silence, then…

 

Fisherman 1: When we’re done delivering him to the guards, wanna fuck?

 

Fisherman 2: Sure.

 

Cold, wet, and hoping he could rinse off the salt water before his joints rusted, the asset shivered.

 

_I have a bad feeling about this mission._

 

* * *

 

After being delivered to the city guards, who wore outfits that managed to show even more leg than the fishermen’s, the asset had politely accepted their gestured offers of a bath and food before breaking through a window and escaping. Dusk found him traversing the white-walled city of one and two storey buildings in the direction of what looked to be rolling hills. From the rare tower, the asset made quick survey of the land. He was surprised to see that he was not, in fact, on an island.

 

The asset should have paid more attention to the bit about time travel and parallel worlds. In his defense, he was busy trying not to bite off his own tongue and choke to death after a round of memory wiping. He regretted his will to live as he slunk over rooftops of what appeared to be the Greece of antiquity later that night.

 

_But a version of Greece attached to the mainland of Europe. This development is unwelcome._

 

Like any good cross-generational cyborg assassin, the asset had world maps of city, topography, and death metal bands per capita committed to memory. However, none of that would be useful if in this world, countries had decided they’d rather reside elsewhere.

 

_So am I where Spain is located on my Earth? Italy? What if France is on the Antarctican continent in this world?_

Nevertheless, the mission must be completed. Having spotting a caravan exiting the city to the north, the asset leapt lightly onto the roof of a cart and slipped inside to burrow amongst bolts of fine cloth. It was a tight fit between the silks and linens, but the asset regularly slept in a frozen metal tube, so the current accommodations were comparative luxury. He wriggled deeper into a pile of gaudy brocade and dozed to conserve energy.

 

* * *

 

 

As luck would have it, the merchant caravan was headed to the French capital.  The asset split time following the carts and horses from a distance, and nestling in the packed bolts of cloth.  Lacking faster means of transportation, or the ability to blend in with the locals, the asset took advantage of the opportunity to defrost.  Life wasn't bad here in alternate, historical Europe, he supposed, but something still seemed…off.

 

While refueling in the kitchen of a local inn (read: stealing food), a couple had been caught _in flagrante delicto_ as he pulled open the pantry door.  Now, the asset was inured to the sight, having often picked such vulnerable moments to strike.  Less often, however, did coitus fail to be interruptus when a hulking assassin with a metal arm made the twosome a threesome.  From somewhere in the heaving mass of flesh, a breathless voice told him in archaic French to either whip out and get in there, or close the damn door.  The asset picked the latter and fled.

 

From his vantage point in the roof of a hideously slow-moving cart, the asset reflected on what he’d learned after traveling from not!Greece to not!France over the course of a week.  The citizens of this other ancient?  Medieval? Renaissance? Europe were certainly very... passionate.  Hot-blooded.  Vivacious. Uh, eager to enjoy life's pleasures.  The asset was not one to judge- literally, he'd had the opinions electrocuted out of him-  but the degree to which the folk here enjoyed each other's company seemed a bit excessive.  He was a bit sore over the fact that he couldn't leave the safety of ‘his’ fabric cart without stumbling upon a tableau of human ecstasy.  But on the other metal appendage, all that time he'd spent in the cart had led him to pick out a sets of some really choice red wool that he’d get knit into a warm scarf for the next time he went back into cryo.

 

But his new, fuzzy scarf would have to come later.  They’d finally arrived in not!Paris, and he had a mission to fulfill.

 

* * *

 

 

The layout of what on this Earth was maybe, maybe not Paris depending on the light was far less confusing as many other locations the asset was fairly certain he’d navigated before. Making his way to the palace was easy enough. Avoiding random geysers of bodily fluids was not.

 

_Some days_ , mourned the asset, _it’s not even worth leaving the cloth cart._

If he thought the countryside of not!Greece and not!France- which appeared to be somewhere in the Renaissance even though their Grecian neighbors were clinging to Antiquity- was bad, the capital city was worse. Literally every corner, enclave, or medium-to-dark patch of shadow was occupied by writhing, shuddering bodies. As these were the asset’s normal territories, the unforeseen lack of vacancy was somewhat unnerving.

 

_The STI transmission rate must be obscene,_ grumbled the asset as he dodged an incoming blast from a covered doorway. He heard the spatter land behind him as he leapt out of the way. _These people need help._

 

But if he thought the countryside of not!Europe was bad, and the city streets of Paris? worse, the palace was the most precarious danger zone the asset had visited on this mission.

 

_No, any mission! And I can’t even remember my own name!_ he thought frantically as he completed an intricate series of flips and twirls to avoid both sight and spewing juices. There seemed to be some kind of celebration going on, as both the richly attired and harried 99% were cavorting under decadent arrangements of bunting and flowers within the capitol building. The asset was hard pressed to choose a course of action to disrupt the power center of _la_ _fausse France_. Judging from appearances, the ruling parties did not need any help in that department.

 

As the asset was pirouetting off a balcony and contemplating poisoning the water supply with little blue pills to see if _les citoyens_ would literally fuck themselves to death, the structural integrity of his landing ledge gave way- due to one too many rawdogged, pounding trysts in that particular location-, sending him plummeting into a circle jerk of palace guards.

 

_If there’s a gaggle of geese and a murder of crows, can I coin ‘a circle jerk of guards’ as the official term of venery?_ pondered the asset as he was cuffed and hauled away with only token resistance. He was going nowhere fast casing the joint. Getting hauled in front of the authorities would certainly cut out a couple hours worth of wafting about the place as The Ghost of Abstinence Past. Be thrown at the king’s feet, listen to him threaten and taunt for a few minutes, then figuratively do to his spinal column what his subjects were literally doing to each other’s assholes: when in doubt, go with the basics, after all. On the way to the dungeon- _I hope it’s not THAT kind of dungeon, ugh. But knowing these folks…-_ he spotted the merchant in charge of the cloth caravan hawking his wares at a pair of noblewomen who were most certainly fingering each other under the table and not listening to the virtues of a particular silk’s weave.

 

_He better not sell that wool I picked out!_ the asset thought darkly as the bars closed around him in the- thankfully traditional- dungeon.

 

* * *

 

 

He was brought before the two monarchs, dual rulers of not!France in this parallel Europe. From what he could glean, the Grecian king- ‘Akelios’ in their tongue- had been an imported manservant before working his way into the pants of Vere the Younger’s pants, thus reclaiming a seat, to be callous, in a governing body. The asset placidly played ball from the time of his incarceration to his audience with the kings, which seemed to be a couple days. He would not have minded the captive roll-play, if not for the fact that his gaolers appeared five seconds from ripping off each others’ clothes at any given moment.

 

He was brought before the private chambers- because of course he was- of the Akelion and Veretian kings, both alike in equal dignity, in the royal seat of Vere. The asset steeled himself for a thorough decontamination session after the mission’s completion as he was half marched, half hauled into the inner sanctum of the two kings.

 

_Fuck Hydra, seriously. Whoever joins them as a rational, consenting adult needs help,_ swore the cyborg as he was shoved to stand in front of a table near the shared bed of the monarchs. _I wish I had my memories, if for no other reason than claiming overtime._ What came next, however, would shake his expectations to the core.

 

A pair of pale, long-fingered hands bracing an overly tall pile of books burst through the door he had recently arrived from, while a tanned lump of flesh in the bed made itself known with a grunt and a seismic shift. The asset was, frankly, shocked that the two had announced themselves know together in a shower of ecstatic pheromones and liquids materializing out of bodily orifices upon his arrival. Already, the asset could tell that these were not your run-of-the-mill alternate!European citizens. The fact that they could keep everything PG-rated long enough to see him safely introduced to their chambers already spoke volumes. He would need to be careful in his approach.

 

“You are not a native of Akelios or Vere,’ said a dignified voice from behind the stack of books. The somewhat reedy tone sent the asset back almost a century to grayer, more precious times with the most important Mission he would ever fail.

 

“ _Ça c’est correct. Je suis êtrange, on peut dire_.”

 

The darker, attractive man in bed said something in ancient Greek that the asset could only partially understand. The muffled voice behind the fraction of the library responded.

 

“No, he’s not a threat. He’s more confused than we are. I suspect he is a man out of his time, so to speak.” The books were placed on the table, revealing a slender blond. “He is but a passing diversion.”

 

If the asset had sufficient personality, he would have been offended at the ‘passing diversion’ label. Instead:

 

“Where am I? _When_ am I? Why is everything so similar, yet so, _so_ different? I do not understand,” asked the asset, feebly struggling against his bonds. His attempts did not fool anyone in the room. The blond smiled in a bemused fashion.

 

“Your powerless pantomime, though entertaining, is far from convincing. I am sure you could liberate yourself and strangle us both in a matter of seconds before the guards could pull their hands from each others’ pants.”

 

The asset was glad that he wasn’t the only one who was concerning with local security’s personal inspections. The straightlaced blond chuckled.

 

“Never fear, _sicarius ex machina_ , you are safe for the time being. Though I must warn you, if you attempt to harm any of our citizens, you will pay the consequences as befitting a traitor of our hospitality.” The asset nodded, once. Better to fake compliance now, shoot up the place later.

 

“If you’re cold, assassin, you’re welcome to a blanket. It appears that nobody knew what to get two kings at their wedding, and assumed that elaborate afghans were a safe bet. Someone must have put them on sale.”

 

_How did he-_

 

“Since you were, ah, delivered to the room, you’ve consistently inched closer to the fireplace. While enjoying all the comforts the dungeon had to offer, the guards reported your frequent shivering.” He paused and turned ever so slightly to the bed. “It’s the height of summer, and even those of us who hail from warmer climes,” the drowsing pile of muscle muttered something sassy in Greek towards the standing king’s direction, “are feeling the heat. You, however, are wrapped in the stolen clothes from what I assume is every drying line between here and border.”

 

_He’s got me there._

 

Despite training and electroshock therapy to the contrary, the asset failed to hold back a full-body shiver. He was never, truly, warm after coming out of cryo. About a week or so of living in a European summer before the invention of air condition had not defrosted his deepest parts. It was probably all psychological, the asset realized, but still.

 

“The nights, they are…cold,” he ground out.

 

As the asset internally debated the merits of a highly choreographed assault on the unified kings versus simply whacking them over the head with many pounds of metal arm, the only other person in the realm who wasn’t experiencing some stage of the coital process fished a small brown paper package out of the pile of books. It crumpled lightly under long fingers, so the asset cleared its contents of being a threat. The French king resumed their conversation as he began to write a letter at the table.

 

“I’m curious to know your intentions in our lands. It’s not everyday our kingdoms receive such an exotic visitor,” mused the blond, dotting an I and crossing T’s below his hand. The asset was about say the first lie that came to his lips, when the telltale aura of Hydra’s transport beam bloomed into sight.

 

The dozing Grecian leapt out of bed, clearing up any suspicion as to what the monarchs had been up to shortly before he was brought before them. So, too, did any questions why the bookish Frenchman was giving this Dude-Bro from the days of yore his favor.

 

_That thing deserves it own postal code,_ was the asset’s penultimate thought of his Viagra-sponsored trip to Europe.

 

“Catch!” called the French king, tossing the wrapped package to the asset from across the room. He grabbed the item out of the air and looked ready to throw it away from his person when the king followed with, “Keep it.” Feeling a surprising sense of trust for the smaller, confident blond man, the asset stuffed the package down the front of his outfit. His last view of the royal chamber was of a smirking blond and his hulking paramour attempting to lure him away from the pile of books.

 

* * *

 

Light yielded to the cold mercies of his handlers rushing him out of the transport bay and into the ‘debriefing’ chamber, where a week’s worth of grime and memories were literally and metaphorically power-hosed away. Hydra’s higher powers hadn’t realized how behind the times France and Greece on this other Earth were when assigning his latest mission, and lucky for him, didn’t consider the lack of assassinated kings a failure. As if the last several days were nothing but a daydream, the asset found himself back in the cryo tube.

 

A scant few minutes remained before they would turn on the gas and force him into frozen slumber. The asset was struggling to piece together what had just been taken from his memories when he realized there was an unfamiliar weight against his chest. Hastily reaching inside his jacket as knock out gas began to rise from the floor vents, he pulled out a lumpy package, slightly damp from the post-mission decontamination shower. Ripping it open revealed a red knitted woolen scarf and a note written in French: ‘ _For those cold nights. –L+D’_ He quickly looped the fuzzy material around his neck several times and collapsed against the side of the tube.

 

White gas filled his vision and his lungs. His eyelids drooped and fell shut. Trying his best to burrow into the mysterious gift, the asset drifted off pondering the identity of L and D from a land of summer.


	2. Harry Potter and the Slytherin Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Golden Trio investigate a series of increasingly ridiculous pranks during an ambiguously identity year at Hogwarts. Is Slytherin, after all, always the guilty party? A old soul will weigh in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashley's birthday fic is even more horrendously late than RedCave's. Yikes. :/

It was a normal day at Hogwarts. Malfoy was being racist, Hagrid was cuddling something monstrous, and Dumbledore was ignoring the dangers facing his underage students. The Aggressively Good Guys were in the Gyffindor common room after breaking in to an ancient Hogwarts chamber/room/dungeon/broom closet when a cry of, “There’s been a murder!” rang through the air. Like a dog to a whistle, the trio sprinted in the direction of the disturbance, with Harry Potter leading the pack. In his haste to swoop in and save the day, he accidentally trod on the hem of Neville’s brand new dress robes and bowled over a pair of first years.

 

“Sorry!” he called behind him as he flung open the Fat Lady’s portrait and threw himself into the corridor, “There’s danger afoot, and I am the only person who can stop it!”

 

He ran past Professor McGonagall, a couple of visiting Aurors, Remus and Sirius who’d snuck onto school grounds for nostalgia’s sake, and the entirety of the buff, well-trained players on Hogwart’s Quidditch teams.

 

“Once again,” he thought to himself, “I alone have the necessary abilities to save our precious institute of learning from the forces of evil.”

 

The Harry, Ron, and Hermione train screeched to a halt when it ran into the crowd that had gathered around the victim. Using Ron as a battering ram, Harry and Hermione forcibly cleared a path to the front. They were shocked by what they saw.

 

A fourth year Hufflepuff was on the ground, clutching her foot. Her friend was petting her hair and making sympathetic noises. A lack of dead bodies was rather noticeable.

 

“Who’s been murdered??” panted Professor McGonagall as she finally caught up with her favorite (read: least favorite) students. Her eyes darted between the conspicuously not-dead Hufflepuffs and the Gryffindor dream team.

 

“I stubbed my toe really hard!” the girl on the floor whined piteously, “It feels like I’m dying!”

 

“And that’s basically the same thing as murder,” added her friend, with a straight face. At the realization that no one had died, the crowd dispersed. Professor McGonagall took 600 points from Hufflepuff for disturbing the peace.

 

“Ugh, _Hufflepuffs_ , am I right?” asked Ron as the three walked away.

 

“Now Ron, you know better than to use House stereotypes in your criticisms of other students’ behavior. In 1746, Moopert the Questionable based his slander case on the rumor that it burns when all Slytherins p-” Hermione recited whichever chapter of _Hogwarts, a History_ to deaf ears. Harry’s thoughts were occupied by the incident. Something wasn’t right.

 

“Doesn’t it bother you that the Hufflepuff fourth year stubbed her toe in an empty hallway?” asked Harry, rudely interrupting Hermione’s lecture, “I mean, she was in the middle of a corridor with smooth stones. What could she have hit her foot on?” Ron shrugged.

 

“I dunno. She’s a Hufflepuff, does she really need a reason to fall down and cry?”

 

Hermione restarted her lecture.

 

Harry was trying to come up with an explanation for why the incident was so sinister when yet another scream pierced the air. Through the Hogwarts hive mind, the consensus of ‘library’ and another murder’ was reached. The Golden Gang sprinted away.

 

South of the border (read: in the restricted section), Madame Pomfrey was levitating the forms of three Ravenclaw students. The sight nearly brought Harry to tears.

 

“Is there nothing those evil Slytherins won’t do??” he demanded into the void, deciding these attacks were Slytherin doing. “Our peers didn’t deserve to die so young!” Madame Pomfrey rolled her eyes.

 

“Potter, they’re not dead. These hooligans broke into one of the greenhouses and stole Professor Sprout’s ‘special’ mushrooms. When their stomachs have been pumped, Aurors are going to have words with them.” But Harry remained unconvinced.

 

“That can’t be possible. They’re in Ravenclaw, they’re too smart to steal drugs and get caught!”

 

“I’m certain they felt the same.”

 

With that, she left the library, Ravenclaw miscreants floating behind her. Failing to find any evidence of wrongdoing, Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed shortly after. They overtook Madame Pomfrey and her followers three, who had been stopped by Professor Snape to get a report of the incident. He sneered at them as they passed, and loudly took 1,000 points from Ravenclaw for theft of narcotic substances, as well as 10 points from Gryffindor for looking at him funny. Ron and Hermione had to sit on Harry to keep him from murdering Snape in cold blood.

 

The rest of the day passed without issue. That in itself was strange, given the regular occurrence of life-threatening incidents at Hogwarts. It only fueled Harry’s suspicion that something nefarious was afoot. The trio was huddled close at dinner and discussed what they knew about the mysterious plague of bad luck afflicting the school, when someone erupted in anger.

 

“I’m _telling_ you, Malfoy and his cronies are behind everything!”

 

Harry’s outburst went unacknowledged by the rest of the Gryffindor table. It was a Tuesday, after all. ‘Potterless Tuesdays’ had become a sacred tradition for the House of the brave. While Ron nodded emphatically in agreement with his best bud, Hermione looked unconvinced.

 

“Harry, you can’t blame Malfoy for everything that goes wrong at school.”

 

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Great Hall:

 

“Draco, you can’t take credit for everything that goes wrong at school. We were in class while those Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws screwed themselves over.”

 

“Watch me.”

 

The Slytherin table shivered as they felt the Emerald Gaze of Judgment pass over them. They wished Potterless Tuesdays could be a thing for them, too.

 

Later that night as Harry laid in bed, he heard whispers of ‘dungeons’ and ‘plans’ coming from the darkness. Lulled to sleep by the familiar sounds of the castle at night, he fell into a peaceful slumber. The peace was destroyed by collective uproar in the early hours of the morning.

 

The facts were these:

 

A Slytherin first year had woken up before the rest of the House- whispers of ‘bedwetting’ managed to find their way into the retelling at this point- to discover the hair on their head entirely removed. Their screams woke up the rest of the snakey bunch, who joined in the moaning and gnashing of teeth at the realization that they, too, had apparently misplaced their luscious locks during the night. One Slytherin had to go the Extra **TM** Mile and was openly weeping in the Great Hall, clutching his bald head and hiccupping that “his father would hear about this!”

 

Harry was beside himself in rage. He paced the Gryffindor common room like a, surprise, caged lion.

 

“What new low have the cruel and unusual Slytherins stooped to now! Is nothing sacred to them?” he demanded of the air. The line between Hermione’s brows was reaching Mariana Trench depths.

 

“You don’t _actually_ think that Slytherins did this to themselves, do you?” she asked with a nervous smile. Potter the Lesser threw himself onto a couch with a scowl.

 

“Of course they did! They’re clearly attacking each House, and Slytherin was next on the list."

 

Hermione whimpered with growing fear.

 

“Harry, please, you’re scaring me. You must know what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.   You’re just… pulling my leg with that patented Potter humor, right?” she prodded, appealing to his ego.

 

It worked.

 

“I know that, Hermione. But all jokes aside, we have to get to the bottom of this. Gryffindor’s the only House that hasn’t been attacked, and we can’t let anything happen to our precious underclassmen.”

 

At that moment, the pair of first years Harry had trampled the day before saw him in the common room and promptly walked back the way they had come. He took no notice. Ron looked up from his wizard chess penpal letter long enough to comment on the situation.

 

“Whatever we do, we better do it fast. If the attacks-” Hermione grumbled that there was only one ‘attack,’ and even that was more like a prank- “follow yesterday’s trend, Gryffindor will be hit before the end of the day. The escalating severity of each incident is a highly concerning factor to consider, as well.” He went back to puzzling over the latest move his opponent had made. Hermione’s face was red and her eyes had a glazed look about them. Then, fanning herself:

 

“Ron’s right. If we’re going to find out who stole the hair off the Slytherins’ heads, we need to act now while everything’s fresh in our minds.”

 

The trio divvied up investigative tasks to complete by that evening. As teacher’s pet, Hermione would ask professors and check the library for spells, potions, and magical artifacts that could possibly have de-fluffed the dungeon dwellers. Harry would confer with the Headmaster. Ron would guard the Gryffindor common room from invaders trying to steal a spot on the couch. Duties assigned, the gang split.

 

Harry set off for Dumbledore’s office, a trek he could do backwards and blindfolded in his sleep. Indeed, Filch would burst a blood vessel if he found Harry snoozing next to the stone gargoyle in the early hours of the morning one more time. Spotting the repeat offender from the other end of the hall, the gargoyle sighed and heaved his stony behind out of the way without bothering to ask for a password. Harry tipped an imaginary hat to the creature as he swept past.

 

Ah, Dumbledore’s inner sanctum. It had come to feel like Harry’s second home. The paintings didn’t even perk up at his presence anymore. He made himself comfortable in his usual chair and waited for the Headmaster to make his entrance. He didn’t wait long.

 

“Harry, my boy!” called Dumbledore as he swept in, all glitter, rainbows, and child endangerment notices, “What brings you to my humble abode?” Several collective tons of gold instruments and frames creaked in agreement.

 

“Sir, it’s just awful. Someone’s been terrorizing the students, and the attacks are escalating. I suspect the Slytherins are up to no good!” fumed Harry. His favorite professor leaned back with a twinkle in his eye.

 

“Now Harry, you know I have always maintained a fair and unbiased defense of the nasty Slytherin House during my tenure as Headmaster. I simply cannot allow you to refer to your gutless, sniveling peers in such a manner,” he chastised. Harry hung his head in shame.

 

“Yes, professor.”

 

Dumbledore patted Harry’s hand fondly and offered him a sweet. Always eager to accept candy from adults who gave him a shred of affection, Harry accepted.

 

“But sir, there really is someone or something menacing the castle. We need to put a stop to these attacks before anyone gets seriously hurt.” Reminded of his duties as the head of a school, Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully.

 

“Quite right, my boy, quite right. In times like these, I find it prudent to open up and be receptive to what the castle has to say…” He prattled on with Harry lapping up everything Dumbledore had to give. When finished, he sent Harry on his way. The youth left feeling like he learned a lot and nothing at all. His feelings were valid.

 

The rest of the day passed in an atmosphere of tense apprehension, at least in the Gryffindor house. The Fat Lady changed passwords on the hour in her nervousness, causing most of the brave and the bold to cower in the hallway like exposed rabbits on a plain. Despite the paranoia, nothing unusual happened.

 

The Golden Trio met to relay what information they had gained on their respective missions. From checking incident reports in Hogwart’s storied past, Hermione found mention of other mysterious pranks that occurred roughly 50 years ago. She confirmed with the enrollment list from that year and sure enough, Master Riddle himself was a student at the time. Harry and Ron gasped in horror, like everything that went wrong in the wizarding world _didn’t_ somehow relate to Voldemort’s youth. Harry relayed Dumbledore’s message that they should be open to what the castle had to say- “What does that even mean?” thought Hermione to herself- and Ron assured them that no one dared touch Their Couch in the common room that day. Congratulating Ron on a job well done and resolving to keep their ears open to any wisdom the castle felt like imparting, the teens retired for the night.

 

They needn’t have worried about anyone sitting on Their Couch. The entirety of the Gryffindor House had disappeared come morning. Hermione was forced to admit that perhaps there was in fact something a little off about Hogwarts.

 

Ron and Hermione managed to stop Harry from literally tearing out his hair by calling attention to a cruel taunt painted onto the cushions of Their Couch.

 

“I’m waiting in the Boiler Room of Arcane Knowledge and Forbidden Secrets,” sounded out Ron, slowly. Hermione patted him on the head. Harry drove right into the detective work.

 

“It’s written in blood! Voldemort must have done it after he killed all the other Gryffindors, just like he killed my parents!” Even Ron took some issue with that one.

 

“Harry, that looks like ink. Mmmm, tastes like it, too.”

 

In the privacy of the deserted common room, Harry took out the Marauder’s Map and located the Boiler Room of Arcane Knowledge and Forbidden Secrets on the old parchment. Tucked away in what appeared to be an inconspicuous corner of the dungeons, someone (Harry) found further evidence that the madness was all of Slytherin design. Someone else (Hermione) had a crazy theory that boiler rooms were typically located at the bottom level of any building for the absurd reasons of Plumbing and something called Physics. Ron patted his silly friend on her bushy head.

 

(If Harry had paid attention, he would have noticed that the names of all the Gryffindor students were at the Quidditch pitch on the map. There was a spirit rally for the team before the final match. He if had _really_ been paying attention, he would have also remembered that he was due to appear with the Gryffindor Quidditch team at said rally, and was supposed to tell Ron and Hermione to attend. But such is hindsight.)

 

They strode purposefully down to the dungeons, waves of students parting like the Red Sea around them. Draco Malfoy, with his patchy bald head, started to make a snide comment before a fellow Slytherin kicked him in the shins.

 

“Silence, fool! Can’t you see they mean business? We’re only just getting our hair back!”

 

“….my father will hear about this…” Malfoy whimpered as he slunk back to his ferret hole.

 

The Boiler Room of Arcane Knowledge and Forbidden Secrets, unlike many rooms at Hogwarts, was exactly where it was supposed to be. The clearly labeled “Boiler Room – Maintenance Personnel Only” rested in an offshoot hallway within the dungeons. It was so inconspicuous, the gang actually walked past it the first time. As they opened the unlocked door whose hinges didn’t even squeak, Ron wondered what kind of advanced cloaking spell had been placed on the room.

 

The place was empty, save for the large metal cylinders of water, when-

 

“Oh good, you got my message.”

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione leapt back, wands at the ready (Ron was holding his the wrong way, but his heart was in the right place.) And yet, not a creature was to be seen in the unassuming space.

 

“You can’t see me, can you? Hold on…” the voice trailed off, and faint shape materialized in front of them. It was a young-ish looking man, dressed in clothes fitting neither current Muggle nor wizard fashion. What he did wear, however, was an immensely hopeful look.

 

“So, did you bring it?”

 

Harry side-eyed the apparition.

 

“Bring what?”

 

To Harry’s shock, the transparent man turned to address his best bro instead of him, the prince who was obviously promised.

 

“Ron, did you bring the ring I asked for?”

 

Harry’s side-eye became a slow turn to Ron, with whom the metaphorical pieces were falling into place as he pulled a gold signet ring out of pocket.

 

“That was _you_? But how?” The ghostly man grinned and wiggled his fingers.

 

“For some reason, solidifying my hands enough to write wizard chess correspondence is easier than appearing before people in the castle. Must be Hogwarts magic.”

 

Harry was having none of these shenanigans that weren’t about him.

 

“Betrayed,” he moaned, “by my own best friend! My boon companion! The Wormtail to my Prongs!” Elsewhere in the dungeons, Draco Malfoy scowled at the sensation of someone who wasn't him referencing their father in a self-pitying monologue. Hermione, ever the saint, interceded.

 

“Now Harry, let’s not jump to conclusions. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for a basement-dwelling ghost to manipulate Ron into an isolated room.” To her own ears the argument sounded weak, but there was no such resistance from Harry’s.

 

Drifting closer, eyes never leaving the ring in Ron’s hand, the ghost offered some explanation.

 

“That ring belonged to a friend of mine, a friend who has been dead for a long, long time. We didn’t part on the best of terms, and I believe that’s why I haven’t been able to rest. Upon my own death I was swept to the lake at Hogwarts from a different one, where I’ve lurked for years, trying to come up with a way I can get closure,” sighed the man. “I’ve tried to contact bright young minds over the years, but it’s harder than you think. In life I was quite the gifted mage. In death, I am not.”

 

Hermione started to understand.

 

“Those mysterious pranks, those were you? And the ones several decades ago as well?” The ghost nodded.

 

“That was me! I tripped a girl in the hall, and swapped the shampoo in the Slytherin baths with a slow acting hair removal cream, in the hopes that it would get your attention, and it worked!” He looked rather pleased with himself. “Pretty brilliant, wouldn’t you say?”  Hermione was unimpressed.

 

“Yes, it’s all coming together. You were definitely behind the events of 50 years ago, too.”

 

“There’s a smart girl!” beamed the spirit. He closed the gap between them and held out his hand. “Now, if you please, the ring. I’d like to see my dear idiot again.”

 

True to form, Ron looked to Harry for permission. Moved by the ghost’s tragic backstory involving dead loved ones, Harry nodded his approval. Ron handed the dragon ring over, which the young man took with visibly concentrated effort. Cradling it close to his chest, he sighed in relief.

 

Soft light eclipsed his form. As he started to fade from view, Hermione called out:

 

“Wait! There are some many things we have to ask you! Why did you decide to reach out 50 years ago? Why try again now? How did you know that we’d investigate when you pulled those stupid pranks? How did Ron get the ring? What even is this ring??”

 

Alas, the only sign that the young man had heard her questions was a brief gold glowing of the eyes before he disappeared. Luckily, Harry had been around the block often enough that he’d written all of Hermione’s important questions down. Professor Dumbledore was due for another visit to tie up the loose ends of the plot!

 

Bright and early the next morning saw Harry back at Dumbledore’s office. Sensing that the narrative was nearing its end, Dumbledore arrived promptly.

 

“Harry! Good to see you back so soon. What brings you here today?”  


The teen recounted his adventure in the Boiler Room of Arcane Knowledge and Forbidden Secrets. Dumbledore nodded along with the young man he had groomed to be a child soldier- er, helped raise. He leaned back in his headmasterly throne and steepled his fingers.

 

“Now I’m unsure as to the specifics, but I believe that the spirit of the young man you encountered was in fact a rather important historic personage. Lucky for him, the item in question was buried beneath the couch cushions in the Gryffindor common room. How it got there when the phantom was decidedly _not_ in Gryffindor when he was alive, I cannot say,” expostulated the sage.

 

“Brilliant,” breathed Harry. “But how did he know it was there?” Dumbledore looked pensive and stroked his beard. Harry edged closer; things were about to get good.

 

“From what I understand, he had been communicating with Mr. Weasley for some time as wizard chess penpals, most likely to establish a more corporeal servant to search on his behalf, and to while away the unending agony of the afterlife.” Harry nodded in comprehension. “Fortunately for the ghost, Mr. Weasley’s permanent home is on the very couch where the curious dragon ring was lost amonst the cushions. I imagine that our young friend mentioned his discovery in one of his letters, and the ghost instructed him to carry it with him in his reply, intending to see you all in person soon enough.”

 

Harry reveled in the insight. Dumbledore’s knowledge was unparalleled! Oh, if only they had access to it while events were unfolding, things would have gone so much smoother! Alas, he would have to be content with these debriefing sessions.

 

“But sir, there’s still one thing I don’t understand,” he said, “what happened with the ghost 50 years ago? How did it relate to Voldemort, as all things do?”

 

Dumbledore had a far-away look in his eye as his mind reached back to when his hair was more of an off-white than a powder snow.

 

“I can only guess as to the ghost’s motives back then. But I recall the odd occurrences from when I was the Transfiguration professor, and I suspect that as he reached out to you and your friends, the best and brightest of your generation”– here, Harry beamed at the ego stroking- “the spirit attempted to contact the most promising young person of the time. What’s more, young Tom Riddle belonged to the same House as the ghost, perhaps he hoped that connection would assist him in acquiring a helper.”

 

As always, Dumbledore’s words were nothing but the simplest, purest truth to Harry’s ears. Satisfied with the plot explanation, Harry thanked his mentor and saw himself to the door. Right before he stepped out into the hallway, he turned to confirm one last thing with the headmaster.

 

“Sir, you said that the ghost and Tom Riddle belonged to the same house.”

 

Dumbledore nodded.

 

“So doesn’t that mean a Slytherin was behind everything, in the end?”

 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled more merrily than before, and he tapped his nose.

 

“Astute as ever, my boy. Have an excellent day.”

 

Humming with the satisfaction that he had been right all along, Harry left.

 

 

As was always the case, time seemed to speed towards the end of the academic year upon the annual mystery’s resolution. All too soon, students eagerly awaiting the train out of this hellhole crowded the tables in the Great Hall under bright scarlet banners; shocking absolutely no one, Gryffindor had won the House Cup. Again.

 

Dumbledore broke his glass over Professor Flitwick’s head to gather everyone’s attention.

 

“Once more, my children, it is time to leave these hallowed halls of learning to apply what skills you have honed out in the world,” he intoned.

 

At the Slytherin table:

 

“But we’re not allowed to use magic during the summer!” someone whined.

 

“Shut your fucking whore mouth, Malfoy,” said a Slytherin seventh year who was graduating and ready to burn her bridges.

 

“Father. Tell. Make you. Sorry,” mumbled the rest of the table in unison.

 

Dumbledore continued.

 

“I would like to recognize the wisdom, cunning, and hard work exemplified by our Gryffindor students this year. As you know, these have always been remarkable traits attributed to the house of lions above all others.

 

Harry nodded along proudly. Hermione sunk into her seat to avoid the glares from all the other Houses. Ron contemplated an éclair on his plate.

 

“In these trying times, when we encounter difficulty telling friend from foe, I want to leave you all with some timeless words that offer light in the darkness.” He cleared his throat and took a sip of water from Flitwick’s cup (he wasn’t in any condition to protest).

 

“SHOT THROUGH THE HEART. AND YOU’RE TO BLAME. YOU GIVE LOVE….A BAD NAME.”

 

The hall erupted in applause. Tears streamed down Harry’s face. And quietly, unheard beneath the raucity:

 

“That song is awful. I’m telling Father.”


	3. It's Me, Ya Boi Haru

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rei and Nagisa eagerly await the return of Makoto and Haru after their first term at university, especially after Haru's social media accounts went dark. Right off the bat they smell trouble when Makoto's acting shifty as they wait for Haru at the local coffee shop...
> 
> *muffled rap music plays in the distance*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Approximately 6.022x10^23 years ago, GimlisonofGloin said it would be hilarious if Haru became a frat boy at university.
> 
> Happy belated birthday, kouhai!

Makoto had texted them that morning to meet at a coffee chain in town around noon.  Well, he had texted Rei and assumed that Nagisa would know by default (which meant that they weren’t as lowkey as they thought).

 

“Can’t see why it’s such a big deal,” said Nagisa as they ambled over to the recent installation of a soulless coffee chain outpost. “If you don’t think Makoto’s been chowing down on that whitefish meat for ages then you ain’t been paying attention.”

 

Rei smacked his shoulder to halt the flow of inappropriate commentary on their senpai’s love life.  To be fair, Nagisa didn’t entirely deserve such treatment. Rei had woken up in an irritable mood. It was time to demand from his senpai an honest explanation for why they had not heard from Haru since starting university a few months prior.  Nagisa had recently commented on Haru’s radio silence, the recognition of which festered in his subconscious until the text from Makoto woke him from restless slumber. Today, Rei resolved to get answers using any means necessary.  Power agreed with him, he had learned since becoming the Iwatobi swim team captain, and he was loath to cede it upon the return of his indiscrete upperclassmen.

 

He had said as much to Nagisa when the budding Mafioso picked him up at his house that morning.  Nagisa, flushing and unbuttoning his shirt collar, said that Rei had better stop carrying on like that or they’d never make it out of his room in time for noon, but please for the love of god come back to that particular monologue the next time Rei’s parents were out.

 

Moondollars came into view with an anxious brunette waiting outside.  Their senpai looked like he had gotten as much sleep as Rei, which was to say, almost none at all.  Their other senpai had failed to arrive in a timely manner.  Rei clenched his fist.  If Haru had been in the new cohort of swim team members, oh, the series of timed butterfly sprints Rei would have made him do…

 

“Hey, where’s Haru at?” Nagisa asked Makoto as the trio entered the café.  “Did you lose him to an _extra_ sexy puddle of water?” Rei rolled his eyes.  At least someone else was as bitter has him.

 

“Oh Nagisa, you’re so funny!” laughed Makoto weakly before placing their order.  The hot chocolate (Makoto), black coffee with an added shot of espresso (Rei), and unicorn java chip frappuccino with extra caramel drizzle on top of the extra whip (thug!seme) came out and they grabbed a table.  When he reflected on their disastrous reunion later, Rei would notice that Makoto had rushed to take the seat facing the door. 20/20, hindsight, etc., etc.

 

They had just sat down when they heard muffled rap music playing in the distance.  The blood drained from Makoto’s face. Nagisa perked up at the sounds of his people, but slumped back down when he realized it was that poser crap. Their senpai’s eyes darted between them and the door a few times before he lost his cool.  He grabbed them both by the arm and pulled them close.

 

“You have to understand, college is a stressful time,” he said urgently, looking more anxious with every word. “Sometimes you just have to lose yourself before you find yourself.” Rei voiced his concern at the sudden outburst.

 

“Senpai, what on earth is going-”

 

But Makoto cut him off.

 

“You shouldn’t, you can’t judge him for everything, he doesn’t know what he’s doing.  It’s just a phase, it’s not who he really is.  You- you know him, you do!”

 

At this point, a feverish light lit the brunette’s eyes.  The music had gotten louder, and the sound of wheels squealing to a halt could be heard from outside the café. The grip on the younger teens’ arms grew tighter.

 

“Please, just give him a chance. Everybody makes mistakes!” cried Makoto. Nagisa pulled himself away with a scowl.

 

“Man, what the _hell_ is wrong wit’ you?”

 

Before Makoto could formulate a response, the door behind them flew open. Makoto looked like he was about to faint. Rei and Nagisa turned around as one, and their mouths fell open at the sight that greeted them.

 

“Sup, brahs? What is _up_ my dudes?”

 

Illuminated in the doorway stood Haru, but not the Haru who drove off with Makoto a few months ago to start their adult lives in Tokyo. He was wearing salmon Bermuda shorts with a mint green polo, collar popped.  Plastic Ray-Ban sunglasses obscured his eyes and slip-on boating shoes covered his feet. The snapback on his head was a particular shade of ‘irritating.’ But most noticeable were the Greek letters adorning his chest, and the smug, smug smile adorning his face.

 

Nagisa whipped back around to face Makoto.

 

“Haru became a frat boy?!” scream-whispered the blond to his senpai, who was sinking lower and lower in his seat.  Rei stared wordlessly as their other senpai swaggered over to their table. He threw himself into the chair next to Makoto, and threw his arm around his best friend’s shoulders.  Under the table, Rei could feel him manspreading. Only when he’d succeeded in taking up as much space as possible did Haru deign remove his shades.

 

“Total party foul on me for showing up late, fumb duckers,” Haru slurred, sounding not at all apologetic, “But there was this end of term rager last week and I am _still_ hungover as fuck, oh my god.”  He burped loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth.  From the smell of things, Rei assumed he had the world’s cheapest beer for breakfast that morning. No wonder that week-long hangover hadn’t gone away.

 

Makoto attempted to run damage control.

 

“Now Haru, remember that you’re not at ‘The House’ anymore. Why don’t we hear how Rei and Nagisa have been managing the Iwatobi swim team?” he asked, turning pleading eyes to his kouhai. “I’m sure Rei has done an amazing job as captain.”

 

Lucky for him, flattery worked on Rei, who launched into a detailed account of the swim team’s developments since the beginning of the academic year. It’s not like he’d prepared a speech for this exact opportunity. No, that would be weird, and so unlike him. (He’d been practicing it in front of Nagisa for a week, in exchange for…favors.)

 

Not even a few sentences into his kouhai’s dramatic retelling of how he had driven the new recruits to tears with his grueling workout regime on their first day, Haru whipped out his phone and began to quite obviously swipe right. Every few swipes he would leer or make a face. When he began to aggressively jiggle his leg under the table, causing it to shake like the new recruits under Rei’s gaze, Nagisa cut off the new captain.

 

“Yo Haru, my man’s speaking, don’t be a dick,” he growled, fingers twitching with the need for a menthol. “Can ya stop indulging your low-ass standards on Tinder and pay some goddamn attention?”

 

Ever the codependent peacekeeper, Makoto grabbed the phone out of Haru’s hand and stuffed it into his bag. Haru withdrew his other arm from around Makoto’s shoulders and crossed both over his chest in a sulk. Rei sighed as he realized that his hard work had fallen on deaf ears. No matter, they were here with a purpose, and Makoto’s diversionary tactics were only temporary solutions. It was time to turn the tables. Affecting a demeanor of innocent, enthusiastic curiosity-

 

“Goodness, listen to me ramble! I can't help that I'm so excited to have us all together again. But enough about me, senpai,” he locked eyes with Haru, addressing him specifically. “What’s new with you?” Haru took off his snapback and ran a hand through his hair, making it look like he’d missed many nights of sleep instead of just several. Rei thought he saw a beer cap in the tangled mess, but decided against looking too closely.  Makoto opened his mouth to respond in Haru’s place, but the frat boy beat him to the punch.

 

“I’ve like, really found myself, you know?” he said with the same passion that, until now, had only surfaced when he thought about large bodies of water. “I’d still be that square from high school if my brothers hadn’t encouraged me to rush. Dude, I’d probably still be on the swim team, haha!”

 

Nagisa had picked the wrong time to take a big slurp of his unicorn frap. Multicolored slush spewed from his mouth (and nostrils) at this shocking revelation.

 

“Dafuq? You quit the swim team?” he asked in bewilderment, which came out muffled under Mom Friend Makoto’s rush to mop up the pastel mess on his face. Haru tipped his chair back to the point of precarity.

 

“Yeah, bro. Massively got in the way of my drinking schedule. We can’t all be like this nerd,” he slapped Makoto on the back, “and survive on good grades alone. Amirite, boys?”

 

This awful undergrad stereotype was not their beloved senpai. Tears clouded Rei’s vision. Nagisa shook his head and softly muttered unkind things. Makoto wouldn’t meet their eyes as Haru continued to sound like he learned to read from Urban Dictionary. He had known, thought Rei. He knew the monster that Haru had become, and he had been too ashamed to tell his kouhai the truth beforehand.

 

The ambient sounds of Moondollars seemed to fade as the horrors spilling from Haru’s mouth worsened. His kouhai drowned in tales about “scoring with hot sorority babes” and “doing the raddest keg stand at the inter-frat competition.” Were the walls closing in? Was everything going dark? Time and space seemed to warp around Haru, turning their table at the local Moondollars into a sick version of a black hole’s event horizon from which they could not escape. Rei struggled to breathe, struggled to move-!

 

Just as Haru said he was encouraging one of his fraternity’s chapters in Sydney to recruit Rin, Sousuke woke up with a shout. At some point in the night, the bedsheets had gotten tangled around him and he had rolled onto his stomach, suffocating slowly. He grimaced at the clammy sensation of cooling sweat soaking his skin. Graduation was still a couple weeks away, and the Iwatobi swim team was definitely not having a Reunion from Hell at this very moment. He grunted and flopped onto his back.

 

He had dreamt that he was Rei, rising captain of the Iwatobi high school’s swim team, meeting the worst possible version of Haru that could ever exist.  Now, Sousuke didn’t believe in premonitions or the supernatural, but this dream, this _nightmare_ , had him on edge and worried about the future. Later, when Rin got back to their dorm after his morning jog, he would find Sousuke making a red string murder wall of all Greek life chapters in the Sydney area.  Rin grabbed his toiletries and made a point to stay in the shower as long as possible.  Sometimes, it was best not to ask.

 

 

**Elsewhere….**

 

The TV in the living room was playing quietly as Haru studied for his English final.  Too proud to ask Rin or Rei for help, he had switched on an American channel to provide English background noise. The swimming savant was deeply concentrated on irregular verb conjugations when the movie currently airing caught his attention. Foreign grammar rules forgotten, Haru walked over to the TV as if under a spell.

 

Onscreen, two young men appeared to be convincing a third, who looked quite unhinged, to do…something. Haru grudgingly admitted that maybe he should have gotten one of his friends to tutor him in English.  The guy with the curious symbols on his chest leapt onto a couch and started chanting.  As if by magic, Haru understood every word with perfect clarity despite his mediocre English comprehension skills.

 

            _My name is Cliff, brother of Joe._

_I got me some crack, I want me some hoes!_

Haru’s eyes widened.  Those simple phrases were so profound, so moving! The teen could feel his very being change on a fundamental level. The chant continued:

 

            _Let me hear you say ‘yeah!’_

“Yeah,” muttered the other two, looking like they regretted this undertaking.  Haru had never identified less with another human being than with these two ignorant fools.

 

            _Let’s me hear you say ‘YEAH!’_

“YEEEAAAAAH!!”

 

Haru had jumped onto his own couch, fist in the air, as he joined Cliff, brother of Joe, in a shout of solidarity.  The loud exclamation startled his neighbors and sent birds flapping out of nearby trees. But Haru was insensible to everything except the burning need to learn more about this wild American character and his way of life.

 

Nanase “I-only-swim-free” Haruka died that day.

 

Frat boy!Haru was born.

 

 

**Epilogue: One Year Later**

 

As he walked through the arrivals gate, Rin spotted Sousuke waiting for him in the crowd. He ran over to give his best friend a hug, and as they walked through the airport, the redhead complained about being stuck between a screaming baby and a snoring man on the long plane ride from Australia.  Waiting at the pickup and drop off curb for their taxi, what sounded like pounding music approached them.

 

Rin lifted his head and sniffed the air. Then, in what ended up being famous last words-

 

“Hey, does it smell like Axe to you?”

 

**End**


End file.
